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Sonnets 

of a Mother 









*. ? 



DEC 30 1921 



©CIA653331 



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Jack ®*^vtmn^ 

(1896) 

Y Jack o'Dreams, O little son of mine, 
Forever weaving castles in the air 
Not half so golden as thy golden hair — 
Tell me thy visions lest my heart repine. 
What makes thy hazel eyes grow deep and 

shine? 
Giants to vanquish up a bean-stalk stair? 
What if I follow thee so quickly there — 
Wilt, little conqueror, give me the sign? 

O little son of mine, my Jack o'Dreams, 
Coulds't thou but teach me half thy childish art 
'T would heal my soul's intolerable smart 
Just as thy smile consoles me and redeems — 
Ah, let me clasp thee quickly to my heart 
Where thou hast wrought, so beautiful it 
seems. 




jForeber l^oung 



ORDSWORTH'S fair Lucy died forever 
young, 
Keats wrote his Swan-Song to a steadfast star. 
Forever young, his star-soul shines afar — 
Short lives are yet the sweetest ever sung. 
Their disenchained souls so soon out-flung. 
Before age brands the body with its scar. 
Immortal joys and ecstasies there are 
When passes youth to dwell the stars among. 

Would that I, too, were numbered with the 

blest. 
Who only live to know the dawn of day. 
Nor storm, nor stress, nor yet the noon-time's 

ray, 
But go in all their gladness, imconfessed 
Like wind-blown blossoms, lightly tossed 

away — 
Leaving to age life's pity and unrest. 



bonnet 

{To a Soldier who died for his Country) 

Flag, thy chevrons white, thy chevrons red, 
Thy sapphire field's dark blue, with stars 

bestrown — 
Shine, stars, so few at first, so mighty grown! 
My Western Star, I proudly lift my head 
In grave salute, when passing soldiers tread 
Bearing aloft our ensign, zephyr-blown. 
Thy colors fluting, calling to thine own. 
Thy living sons and thy immortal dead. 

i^et 'tis eternal duty to be brave. 
And what ye give to those thy folds enfold 
Is that dear glory which is half untold. 
Though we may vision it beside some grave, 
Some cross that marks whom we no more 

behold. 
Knowing he died, O Flag, that Thou may'st 

wave. 




artie jWotijer 

A IN on the roof, in the attic, alone, 
I found a little red chair tucked away. 
O chair grown dusty, as I have grown gray, 
You were once my little boy's very own. 
For that I have kept you, Ah had ye known. 
So he was mine for a glorious day. 
His voice had the cadence of birds, in tone. 
And he ruled my heart with a monarch's sway. 

How soon he left me! The roll of the drum 
The beckoning flag and the bugle's call. 
Far over the seas to fight — perchance fall — 
Ye sing, little birds, while I am so dumb. 
Free me, blithe songsters, from fears that 

enthrall. 
To sing, while I wait for my boy to come. 



NEVER knew life was earth's dearest gift, 
O Son, until the night that you were born, 
When out of darkness came celestial dawn. 
Chanted the birds, their song above the drift 
Of orchard blossoms, lilacs seemed to sift 
Their incense over us that sweetest morn — 
That Month of Mary with its glad uplift— 
A jewel on my breast, like Mary's worn. 

To think that you have kept that jewel bright. 
Untarnished, through a soldier's brave career, 
O Son, a thousand times, today, more dear 
Than when I bore you on that dark May night. 
And with the waking dawn saw you and light 
And knew love's conquest over pain and fear. 



®f)e 5|arber Choice 

MOTHER, seek not to withstay thy son 
Wlio makes the harder choice his hfe's career, 
In all youth's innocence and lack of fear, 
Seeking the goal and not the race to run; 
How youth and dreams must go ere he has won 
The thing men call success ; how year by year 
It seems so far away, and yet so near 
Before life's accolade, "O Son, well done!" 

Would' t thou withstay him from so hard a 

choice — 
Heart recreant, that ever coulds't betray — 
Seeing redemption in the braver way? 
And he who answers the up-leading voice 
Life's worth attains, though with the waning 

day, 
And lives and loves and leaves us to rejoice. 



life 



S life, alas, but what earth gives and takes, 
Though winter holds her promises of spring? 
Returning northward song-birds gaily sing. 
The flowers bloom again and earth remakes 
Her world of gladness — yet no dead thing 

wakes. 
Proud pagan Mother, dust to dust you fling 
But bless with leaf and bloom each growing 

thing. 
And would not do as much for our dead sakes. 



Are we, your children, pawns made to beguile 
A passing moment, then fore-doomed to die, 
Our prayers unanswered and your pledge a lie. 
Or sleeping, dreaming, dwell a troubled while 
And waking know life's victory and why 
Our silent dead wear yet a mystic smile. 




Jfaitfj 



ND what is Faith, I asked my saddened soul, 
My first-born entered, throwing wide the 

door — 
The Sign, "For Valor", on his breast he wore — 
Yes, that is Faith which bears men to the goal : 
Through countless others on their country's 

roll, 
Though men as brave, until the fight was o'er 
Behind the lines, their disappointment bore, 
Drinking life's hemlock from its bitter bowl. 

Yet cherishes each heart its amulet. 

The memory of a mother's tenderness, 

A baby's smile, a sweetheart's slendemess: 

A something that the heart can ne'er forget, 

And nothing in God's world can render less, 

The Seal of Faith upon each soul is set. 



^t JWiijiel 



E felt you with him there at St. Mihiel, 
Said, not alone he led his splendid men, 
That you were there and guiding him again. 
I have his letter where he sought to tell 
Of some great battle where so many fell. 
His soldiers gazed amazed upon him then — 
Swore that the bullets swerved around him 

when 
He stood upright there 'midst the shot and 
shell. 



They had not seen you, O my soldier brave. 
Nor heard my prayer — "Be thou there with 

thy son." 
I only know that what I prayed was done. 
You were not there within that quiet grave, 
Among the undisturbed in Arlington, 
You were at St. Mihiel our son to save. 




>onnet 



SHATTERED hope . . . The troops of 

error grow, 
And we who bear the scars upon our souls 
Of War's great agony and bitter doles, 
A League of Nations dreamt to heal earth's 

woe. 
To stem the everlasting tears that flow 
From mothers, when their sons must pay the 

tolls. 
The thousands under seas and under knolls 
Alas, nor sea nor earth will ever know! 



To stay the hand which once our nation led 
The troops of error, in triumphant hate. 
Repudiate a world disconsolate. 
Fore-doom our pledges and forget our dead. 
The mills of God grind slowly while we wait 
To see the dawn of which His prophet said. 



10 




Sitmi&tict SDap 

OTHER, thy missing son has crossed the sea 
And on this solemn Day of Armistice 
Weep we^ for all the sons whom mothers miss, 
And for their mothers weep more bitterly. 
Ambassador for unknown slain is he, 
His mission is a holy one — ^know this. 
Should we break faith, what honor would be 

his. 
However great his decorations be! 

Break faith! Then life could never be the 

same. 
Allies forsaken! Theirs and ours — his cause. 
By son-reft mothers in this war of wars. 
O unknown mother, in thy son's name 
We pray to God, in this, our Nation's pause. 
His faith to keep, who stainless kept our fame. 



11 




(grief 



HE desolation of love's dream is there, 
A dream that never consummation found; 
The very drapery that shrouds her round 
Bespeaks a dire sorrow and despair. 
Seek not to trespass, nor her secret share. 
The uncomplaining lips, whence came no 

sound, 
The do^vncast eyes that sightless seek the 

ground 
Patient as death, and as an angel fair. 



Childless Madonna of the Broken Heart, 
St. Gaudens named her not, yet chiseled 

Grief— 
"Hereafter's Mystery" — his high belief — 
The figure of a woman set apart. 
Beyond all pain, all joy, life's wreck and reef, 
Silent, immortal in a sculptor's art. 



12 



Copyright, 1921 
By the Author 



Printed jor the Author 

By Hudson Press 

New York City 
















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